Nigel Slater on getting the most out of tarragon

Come spring, the tarragon is always the first out of bed, peeping eagerly through the soil as if looking for a chicken to team up with. Short of space in the 'hot' herb patch, the plant is resigned to life in a clay pot, yet seems none the worse for a winter spent under the garden table. The appearance of those first bright-green stems poking up into the cold spring light always takes me by surprise - it seems so brave for something so tender. Three weeks on, their tips pinched out, they have already bushed up nicely.

The fennel is up, too, puffing out its chest, a froth of feathery pale green whiskers against the bare earth of the pumpkin bed. I can't help finding that first emergence of something aromatic from the soil somehow spiritually uplifting. Perhaps it's just greed. The tarragon and fennel are already picked and finely chopped, the leaves mashed with butter and destined to be massaged into a chicken. I have added the squeeze of a lemon, roughly pestled peppercorns, a fat pinch of sea salt and a dribble of everyday olive oil. To that, a small garlic clove, there but barely detectable on the tongue. The green and yellow butter seems the very essence of spring.

I have tucked the butter under the skin of a chicken, making a slit at the back and pushing the seasoned fat as far as it will go, splitting the skin as little as possible. I massaged the butter through the skin, pushing it out with my fingertips to cover as much of the flesh underneath as possible. You can see flecks of green through the thin skin, a layer of trapped succulence and gentle aroma. As the chicken roasted, the butter and herbs basted it from within, and the scent of aniseed and lemon filled the kitchen.

It was a dark winter, most of which I seemed to have spent chained to my desk. There were just one too many meals taken indoors, and at one point the journey from roast parsnips to grilled asparagus seemed endless. The darkness lifted a few weeks ago in a garden lunch eaten within a few feet of a cloud of plum and pear blossom, and not just because that blossom is a probable precursor to a dish of poached pears and chocolate sauce.

I carried the chicken to the garden table with its skin still glistening; we cut it neatly at first, then hacked at it till there was barely enough left for a sandwich. I am now wondering why I didn't roast a second one to eat cold. There is rarely as much cold chicken on a carcass as you hope, and a salad will look mean if there isn't enough to go round. Of course you could use the flesh more as part of the chorus than as principal boy, folding it into a bowl of couscous or long thin grains of brown rice. It'll need a bit of interest if it's to stir up any passion, though, and I see nothing wrong with adding handful after handful of fresh parsley, then maybe tarragon and chives. But I often use this sort of supper as an excuse to hit everyone with more acidic, fresher flavours such as lime, basil, watercress, chilli, fish sauce and lemongrass - the latter being good in a salad if you use the inner heart leaves cut as fine as you and your knife can manage.

If rice is to be the vehicle on which the rest of the ingredients are to ride, then it should be cooked with great care. Using a brown basmati gives me more chance to get the texture right. Cool it quickly, then charge it with generous quantities of coriander leaf, lime juice and Thai fish sauce to make it shout a bit, then introduce the other ingredients, the chicken, a little crunchy ice-cold cucumber cut into fat matchsticks and some roughly chopped watercress leaves. You want a green-flecked salad that will make people sit up and take notice that it's spring.

Herbed roast chicken

A simple, fragrant roast. I eat this with roast potatoes and a thin gravy made from the pan juices. Serves 4.

1 large chicken

a plump clove of garlic

100g butter

a good tbsp rosemary leaves

a small handful of basil leaves

a tbsp tarragon leaves

2 glasses of wine, stock or water

Set the oven at 200C/gas mark 6. Peel the garlic and mash it with a little salt. Mix it with the butter and the roughly chopped herbs. Untie the chicken and make a slit in the skin at the point where the breast and leg meet. Push most of the herb butter up inside the skin with your fingers, rubbing it into the flesh under the skin. Try not to split the skin (though if this happens it is not the end of the world).

Massage the rest of the herb butter into the breast and legs of the chicken, then put it upside down in a roasting tin. Roast the chicken for about an hour (it is ready when you pierce the flesh at its thickest part and the juices run clear, with no trace of blood).

Remove the chicken from the tin and set aside in a warm place to rest. Transfer the tin to the hob, set it over a moderate heat and pour in the wine, stock or water. Scrape at the pan stickings, season the gravy and serve with the chicken.

Roast chicken rice salad

A sound use for leftover pilau rice. Use leftover chicken, or roast a few breasts. A nice garden lunch, this one. Serves 3.

200g brown basmati rice

175g sprouted seeds (mung, lentils, etc)

2 small, hot red chillies

6 bushy sprigs of mint

2 tbsp nam pla (Thai fish sauce)

2 tbsp lime juice

3 tbsp olive oil

2 roast chicken breasts or leftover chicken

Wash the rice, then put it into a small pan covered by about the same volume of water. Add salt and bring to the boil. Turn down to a simmer and cover. When the water has evaporated (and deep holes have appeared in the surface), test it for tenderness. Turn the heat off, then leave the rice, covered, for 10 minutes. Fluff up the rice with a fork and leave to cool. Rinse the sprouted seeds in cold running water and drain. To make the dressing, chop and seed the chillies, chop the mint leaves (discard the stem) and mix in a serving dish with the nam pla, lime juice and olive oil. Cut the chicken into thin strips. Toss them with the dressing, then add the cooled rice. Mix gently, check the seasoning. Leave for 20 minutes for the flavours to marry.